


Rehearsal

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Execution, Historical References, M/M, Mock Execution, Other, Pre-execution, Self-Harm, Sort Of, frank examinations of imminent death, gloom and angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 15:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21000038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: They've been present before executions over the years, but never really understood people's insistence on dying well. Now, they understand.Crowley and Aziraphale prepare for their imminent executions.NOTE: This fic does contain actions that would constitute self-harm in mortal humans, please don't try any of this at home and please don't read this if that's a trigger for you. Details inside if you're unsure.





	Rehearsal

**Author's Note:**

> You know how it is; see a musical about historical queens, get a Good Omens fanfic idea.
> 
> (Also, who knows if the historical references in here are accurate but they suited my purposes)
> 
> Please don't go copying Aziraphale, here, and if self-harm is a trigger I'd steer clear of this fic just to be on the safe side. I think it's a mild one but I'm no judge of these things. Details in the end notes.

They get off the bus outside Crowley’s flat, and Aziraphale barely takes in the details as he follows the demon inside. He’s spent the bus ride processing everything that’s happened, and now he’s at the point of processing what might happen _ next_. It’s not really a question; even without the scrap of prophecy weighing down his pocket, he’d know what’s coming. They have defied Heaven and Hell, laid waste to the Great Plan, and royally cheesed off their superiors in the process. There’s no way this ends well for them.

Crowley seems to be thinking along the same lines. As he pours the wine, he clears his throat awkwardly.

“So, I suppose this is it.”

“I rather think it is, dear.” The air hangs heavy with promises left unfulfilled, things they’d meant to do but never got around to, words best left unspoken now that there isn’t time to savour them. Nevertheless, Crowley looks very much as though he’s about to speak.

“Have you ever been there for someone? Before their execution, I mean?” His tone has a studied disinterest to it, as if it’s not horribly relevant to their situation.

“Er. Yes,” Aziraphale admits. “The last one… Charles I. I was supposed to get him to repent his blasphemy - all that business about the Divine Right of Kings, you know. Didn’t seem quite fair, since it _ was _presumably all part of Her plan, so I just comforted him as best I could. You?”

“Before that. Catherine Howard. Well, barely more than a child, wasn’t she? And so alone. I told Hell I’d been there all along, encouraging lust, but… well, there was plenty of that in that court without _ me _stirring things up.”

They both sit in silence for a few moments, dwelling on the fates of those they’ve befriended over the years. Humans live such short lives as it is, and so many of them have had those precious few years cut short in the most brutal ways.

“I never understood, until now.” Aziraphale sighs. “Why it mattered to him so much, looking good - _ strong _ \- before they took his head. Two shirts, so he wouldn’t shiver, so nobody would think he was afraid. He _ was _afraid, of course he was. I didn’t understand how it could matter who knew that. What difference could it make? Now… now I think I’m beginning to see.”

“There’s so little left to control, at that point,” Crowley mumbles, “everything’s… fixed. Over. Nobody wants to be remembered as weak, or clumsy, not when that’s all-” he swallows hard, “-when that’s all that’s going to be left of you. She had them bring it to her, you know? The block. So she could practice. So she could put her head on it _ gracefully _ before-”

“Before they took it off,” Aziraphale finishes for him, because it looks as though Crowley might shatter into a million pieces at any moment and Aziraphale’s not far from it himself. “Yes.”

A few more minutes pass, both of them staring into their wine glasses before they realise that’s not going to solve anything.

“This… might be relevant.” Aziraphale places the piece of paper on the immaculate coffee table Crowley miracled up to set the glasses on, and Crowley leans in to read it.

_ When alle is fayed and all is done, ye must choofe your faces wisely, for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre. _

“Agnes Nutter?” He asks, and sits back with a sigh as Aziraphale nods. “Why do soothsayers always talk in riddles?”

“Choose your faces wisely,” Aziraphale points out, “do you think she means we should just… you know, face up to it?”

“Put on a brave face?” Crowley’s brow furrows. “Maybe. Must be important somehow, if she bothered to write it down. If it came to you.”

“How do you think they’ll do it?” He doesn’t mean to ask, but it’s all he can think about, suddenly. _ I’m going to be destroyed. How will they destroy me? What’s the last thing I’ll see? _

Crowley grimaces, his face pale, his hand trembling slightly as he reaches out to press a finger to the word _ fyre. _ His voice, however, is steady.

“For you? Hellfire, if they can get it. You know smitings only take if She can be bothered to get involved. Or has that changed since-?”

“No.” Aziraphale sighs. “Not for smiting angels, anyway. So… Hellfire. That makes sense. And… and you?”

“Holy Water.” He seems utterly certain of that. “It’s the only thing I can think of. Besides, Hastur will want revenge for Ligur.”

“No.” Aziraphale can see the logic, he supposes, but he can’t bear the thought. _ Crowley, _ destroyed by Holy Water; it’s been his worst nightmare for a century and a half. “Think about it, Crowley - how could Hell possibly get Holy Water?”

“Same way I did.” Crowley takes a deep breath and lets it out with a huff. “Ask an angel.”

“Heaven would never-”

“You saw Beelzebub and Gabriel at the airbase. If they can be civil for long enough to have a chat, they can certainly work together for long enough to get rid of a mutual problem.”

They drift into different rooms, after that; Crowley disappears into the bathroom, and Aziraphale wanders into the kitchen - all but empty - to miracle up a kettle. He means to make himself a soothing cup of tea - wine doesn’t seem quite the right thing, suddenly, now that he thinks about what he’s going to have to face in the morning. He _ means _to, but he finds himself drawn to the gas hob. He twists the knob, presses the little button for ignition, and there it is; a tiny fire, burning merrily before him.

He doesn’t imagine it takes much Hellfire to destroy an angel; they’ll probably just demand that he put his hand into it and let himself go up like so much celestial kindling. He thinks of the people he’s counselled before their deaths, of their determination to die _ well_. He thinks of Crowley, of the way he paled at the thought of Aziraphale’s destruction. He reaches out, hand shaking, and draws his fingers through the flame. It doesn’t _ hurt _ \- it’s not, after all, the Hellfire that will consume every part of him, right down to his very essence. His very soul. But his hand is still shaking as he draws it away. He reaches out again, trying to focus on keeping it steady, but he’s distracted as Crowley walks back in.

“Aziraphale, I need you to- oh.” He looks from the angel to the little ring of flames and his jaw drops. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. I just-”

“No. No, it’s silly. What did you need?”

“Er…” Crowley holds up a glass he seems to have brought back from the bathroom, full of water. “Could you throw this at me, please?”

“Throw-?” Aziraphale’s mind catches up with his pounding heart, and his stomach turns over. “No. Absolutely not.”

“It’s just tap water, angel. None of the other left. Please?”

“I-” He wants to give Crowley what he wants, anything he asks of him. But he can’t bear it, can’t stand the thought of watching the water splash against the demon’s face, drench his hair, drip down his shirt. He can’t bear to think of it happening again, tomorrow. “I’m sorry, Crowley. I _ can’t_.”

“No.” Crowley takes a deep breath. “No, I suppose not. I’ll just… I’ll do it myself. I’ll be, er.” He eyes the hob for a moment, his expression sad, then slopes off back to the bathroom.

The moment he’s gone, Aziraphale wishes he’d come back. He doesn’t want to be alone in Crowley’s kitchen, making pathetic attempts to prepare for his own execution while Crowley’s alone in the bathroom preparing for his own. He hears a splash and a muttered curse - annoyed, not pained, strange how easy it is to understand the demon after all these years - then the sound of a tap running.

Aziraphale wishes up an electric kettle, tries to focus on the familiar ritual of making tea rather than the ring of flames atop the cooker Crowley's probably never used. He can't quite stay away, though, rolling his sleeves up to the elbow so he won't singe his clothes as he holds his hand over the flame. It's still shaking; how is he supposed to stop it from shaking? If he keeps his fingers in the fire for long enough, will the thought of his own execution become boring, somehow? Will he be able to face the fire with composure then?

Crowley comes out of the bathroom again and sticks his head around the kitchen door, hair dripping.

“I know you don’t want to, er… but would you mind watching? Just… to see if I flinch?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale assures him, because he’s beginning to understand that any last favours they can do for one another are likely to involve helping them to look brave. “Go on.”

Crowley nods, fills his glass of water at the kitchen sink, and then awkwardly throws it at his own face. He nearly - very nearly - manages not to recoil, but at the last moment his eyes close and he ducks slightly. Water splashes off of his face regardless, the demon spluttering in frustration. There's a sizzle, and a hiss, and when Aziraphale looks around in alarm for the source of the noise, he finds that the flame on the hob has gone out. He stares at it for a few seconds before turning the gas off.

"Well, you very _ nearly _ didn't flinch," he begins, but when he turns back to face Crowley he falters. The demon is staring at the hob, and if Aziraphale isn't very much mistaken, he's thinking. That expression on Crowley's face rarely means anything good - or at least, it rarely means anything _ relaxing _ \- but it might be the last idea Crowley will ever have, and Aziraphale isn't about to interrupt that.

“Angel,” Crowley says slowly, still staring at where the flame had once been, apparently oblivious to the water about to drip off the end of his nose, “Holy Water doesn’t bother you, does it?”

“No, of course not. It’s holy, after all, and so am I. Like Hellfire doesn’t affect-” Crowley’s lips quirk up into a half-smile and he nods, urging Aziraphale to make the connection. It doesn’t take long. “Oh. But how?”

* * *

After dinner at the Ritz, they go back to Crowley’s. There’s still an empty glass on the kitchen counter, and Aziraphale smiles fondly when he sees it.

“Well, we were very wrong about their delivery methods,” he tells Crowley, and the demon barks a laugh, tossing his sunglasses onto an end table.

“All that rehearsal gone to waste.”

“I’m glad.”

“Me, too.” They stand in silence for a moment, and then Crowley drags his hands up over his face and through his hair. “Those bastards, though. So much for angels. Present company excepted,” he adds hastily as Aziraphale grumbles.

“Hm. Well, your side weren’t much better.”

“You’re my side.” Crowley reaches out as if to touch his hand, then seems to think better of it. Aziraphale is surprisingly disappointed. “Always have been, really.”

It strikes him, then, that if he wants Crowley to touch him, he can ask for that. He can reach out and grab his hand for himself - he does, and Crowley goes very still, but he doesn’t protest. In fact, he’s looking at their joined hands in something akin to wonder.

“You’re my side, too,” he assures him, “I’m sorry it took so long.”

And maybe Crowley shifts forwards, or maybe Aziraphale does, but somehow their noses bump and then their lips meet, just for a second. Crowley laughs shakily into the mingled breath between them, and Aziraphale doesn’t understand. It takes the demon a moment to regain his composure enough to explain himself.

“Not many people get this. After a night practicing their executions, when execution day’s over… a moment to spend with the person they love.” Gold eyes watch carefully as he speaks the last word, and Aziraphale can’t help but smile fondly.

“Lucky me, then.” And it’s not quite like saying the words out loud, not yet - he’s devoted too much thought to the planning of that confession to let it slip out now - but he knows Crowley understands it, anyway. At last, they can be open about who they are to one another. About what they want.

This time, it’s definitely Aziraphale who leans in, and Crowley closes the gap hungrily, this new kiss a million miles from their first, all heat and passion, and Aziraphale lets it consume him gladly. Crowley’s love is a pillar of fire, uncontrollable and all-encompassing, and this is one fire Aziraphale will always step into without fear or hesitation.

Crowley’s love won’t burn him, but he knows it will keep him warm.

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Aziraphale puts his hand in a fire in order to practice for his execution.


End file.
